


sketches

by sbooksbowm



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:21:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28246839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sbooksbowm/pseuds/sbooksbowm
Summary: A trip to the stationary store broadens Ron’s perception of the world around him.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9
Collections: 2020 HPRomione Discord Secret Santa Exchange





	sketches

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Al_in_the_air](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Al_in_the_air/gifts).



> happy cold, cuddly, wintery season to Al-in-the-air, for whom I wrote this fic as part of the Romione Discord 2020 Incognito Elf Exchange. I hope you enjoy, or at the very least, your heart breaks and is put back together, as requested.
> 
> and big fandom friendship thank you to my amazing beta ermynee/banana who cheered me through this behemoth of a fic! truly I don’t know how we got here but I do know it involved a lot of panicked messages and capslock yelling.

**summer**

‘It’s fine, take your time, I’ll have a look around.’

Hermione smiled knowingly, a mix of giddiness and mischievousness that Ron was giving her indefinite license to troll the aisles, test different pens, evaluate various paper quality. He didn’t mind, though. Nothing in this stationary-and-then-some store whizzed or banged, or flew off the shelves without warning, or sprayed him with unidentifiable fluids. It was altogether plain, normal, and predictable. Ron found it fascinating.

He waved her on, and she turned down the pen aisle, loaded with writing implements of all sizes and colours: fountain pens and ballpoint pens and pens that needed ink in the way quills did, which Ron didn’t really understand, because wasn’t the point of pens to avoid quills anyways? There were multi-coloured pens, erasable pens, pens that clicked and pens that screwed, pens with caps and pens that never dried out. When he ran through the list of options, he marveled again at Muggles’ ingenuity, and nodded to himself as he saw Hermione reach for her latest discovery: rather small pens with a long unscrewable cap that she put on the back to make it comfortable to hold.

‘It’s the smoothest writing I’ve ever done,’ she had said at dinner a few weeks prior, holding out the pen over the table, shaking it in his face. ‘When I write, my hand glides over the page. I can’t believe I hadn’t heard of these before.’

‘Where would you hear about pens?’

‘There’s quite a fervent community surrounding writing implements! One of my colleagues introduced them to me. She said there’s a shop in Covent Garden that stocks these pens and all these amazing papers, and these fancy diaries and all sorts of watercolours and really nice inks. Did you know that there are some pens that get auctioned for thousands of pounds?’

‘What’s that in Galleons?’

‘Mm, the exchange rate went up a bit recently. It’s 10 pounds for a Galleon?’

‘A couple hundred Galleons for a pen? It’s not even a wand, is it? You can’t really do much with it,’ he said, his tone teetering into ‘egg Hermione on’ territory.

Hermione shook her head and replied, ‘First of all, that’s patently false, and you know it.’

He grinned. ‘Do enlighten me.’

‘It’s all about the history and the quality of the pen! Some of them are made with marble and gold and these amazing inks. Anyways, this one isn’t so flashy, but it’s still fantastic.’ She stuck the pen into his hand and spooned mashed potatoes onto her plate, still jabbering on. ‘I think I’ve shed time off my paperwork hour using it. I used to need a full 63 minutes to get through the daily stack and I’m down to 58!’

She finally paused to stick a forkful of the potatoes into her mouth and glanced down at his hand. ‘Why aren’t you trying it?’

Ron laughed. ‘Hermione, we’re eating! I haven’t got any parchment near me!’

She cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘You’re a wizard, aren’t you? Summon some from your desk.’

The pen was, indeed, very good.

They found themselves wandering around Covent Garden on a sticky July day a few weeks later, the pavement a bit damp in the way that hints it rained but no one was paying much mind to notice or care. A year of living in London and Ron still hadn’t gotten used to the way the weather worked in the city: always grey and teasing, the rain itself sneaking around corners when he wasn’t looking. The weather arrived too early or too late, never on time for his notice.

They turned a corner and tromped down a tucked-away side street of black-washed buildings and steamy windows, practically missing the tiny wooden placard that signaled they had reached their destination. Hermione pushed open the door and gasped: the exterior belied the neatly organized counters and shelves extending back farther than one would expect of an unassuming corner shop.

As she tested out the pens, Ron strolled along the counters, flipping through piles of paper and staring at some gadget called a ‘light mill,’ which ‘measured electromagnetic activity.’ He wasn’t sure what that was, or why someone would need to measure it, and he made sure to ask Hermione later if this was another way Muggles finished their paperwork more quickly. He could hear Hermione jabbering away with the salesclerk about the benefits of the fountain versus ballpoint pen and turned back to join her, but faltered as he found himself facing a wall bursting with colours.

Reds, oranges, purples, cool greys and warm pastels, bright blues and deep greens, piled up and peeking out at him. He never knew there were so many shades of yellow or brown. Or pinks for summer and pinks for winter. He reached out and his hand bumped something fluffy: clinking brushes in ceramic bowls tickled his palms. He plucked two at random. Why would someone need a brush with a bristle thinner than his nail? Or thicker than his wrist?

‘Can I help you, sir?’

The enchantment broke. Next to him appeared a squat woman in overalls with a half-shaven head and a ladder of metal rungs climbing up her ears, her head cocked, recalling another punky friend who melted away from his life from not so long ago.

‘Are you looking for something in particular?’

Ron shook his head, blinking away the unwelcome pink-haired montage. ‘I, er, no. I wasn’t looking for anything really. Just caught my eye.’

‘Are you a painter?’

He laughed, twiddling the brushes in his hand. ‘I’ve never painted anything. Maybe finger painting as a kid, but no. Nothing with, you know, all this.’ He gestured to the wall, which now seemed ridiculously advanced and extravagant. ‘This is a bit over my head.’

She nodded, her hands darting out, scooping up mismatched brushes from the counter. ‘Watercolours seem like they might be forgiving, but it’s all about balance, and some strategy.’ She waved the brushes about. ‘Do you wet the paper, or the brush, or the paints? And in what order? You have to be a bit adventurous and a bit patient. It’s all a mix.’

Ron stared at her, dumbfounded.

She grinned. ‘Probably not the best pitch for a first-time painter. But once you master it, it’s the most enthralling of all painting. Some of my favorite watercolours have a life of their own. It’s as though the pictures move.’ Her brushes clunked into their pots.

Ron rolled his two between his fingertips. He scanned the wall again. The basic set of primary and secondary colours (he remembered the colour wheel, thank you, he wasn’t a total knobhead) cost about 75 quid. His chest tightened a bit. With paper and brushes too…he twiddled the thinner brush between his fingers, tapping out the calculations on the counter.

Hermione appeared then at his elbow, and he smiled down at her. ‘All set?’

She nodded. ‘What have you found here?’

The unfamiliar-familiar salesclerk scooted away, a ‘let me know if you need anything’ whooshing after her.

Ron turned back to the wall. ‘What do you think of these?'

~

Unhurried and hungry, Hermione and Ron skirted into one of the miniscule plazas a few blocks from the more-than-stationery store, navigable only by a shoulder-width alley and lined with small cafes and donut shops, a butcher and an apothecary. The tiny triangle of cobblestone was bedecked with circles of colourful benches surrounding thin trees which, along with the plaza itself, seemed to have sprouted up against the will of the towering brick buildings pressing in against them. They grabbed pastries and coffees from a hole-in-the-wall bakery in one corner and sat on a bench, looking up towards the fairy lights someone had strung across the interlocking branches. The fudgy, nutty chocolate confection was unbelievably good, but as soon as Ron turned back to look at the name of the shop, it had disappeared.

‘Do you ever reckon bits of Diagon Alley leak into the rest of the city?’ Ron asked, as he stared at the place where the counter had been. No one around them seemed concerned that the blue-shuttered window where they had received their indescribable chocolate blocks moments ago had melted into the brick.

Hermione chewed thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know if it’s Diagon Alley, or just how old London is. Wizards weren’t always concentrated in one section. Though now that I think of it, we are quite close to the Leaky.’

Ron sipped his coffee. ‘Makes you wonder what else crops up when we’re not paying attention.’

~

‘Mum, I’ve already told you, we’re not having this conversation again.’

‘Merlin help me, Ginevra, I am not finished!’

‘Enjoy nattering to yourself, then, because I am!’

The kitchen door slammed after Ginny, leaving Ron to his toast and a somewhat irate Molly, bustling around the kitchen, opening and slamming drawers, whipping her wand back and forth across the stove.

‘I say, if that’s how she wants to approach mature, adult conversations, then she’s certainly not ready to move in with any boyfriend!’

Ron brushed his hands on his jeans. ‘Mum.’

The bustling paused for a brief moment, then returned with a softened vengeance.

He tried again. ‘Mum, please sit down.’

A whisk clattered into the sink. Molly turned slowly and sank into the seat at the head of the table.

‘She’s barely 18!’ she began, her hands fussing over the placemat.

‘Mum, it’s not “any boyfriend.” It’s Harry, for crying out loud.’

‘She’s too young.’

Ron sighed and pushed his plate away. ‘I’m not going to bother running through the arguments again, because I know you’ve heard it all. You’re talking past each other.’

Molly’s fiddling quieted. He took that as an invitation to continue.

‘Ginny’s not saying that she wants to leave you. She’s not saying that she hates it here or needs to grow up. And she’s not saying that the Burrow isn’t home. Of course this is home for her. For all of us! How else could I turn up for breakfast without notice and know there’d be food for me?’

‘There’s always food for you, Ronald,’ Molly started. ‘How could you ever think—’

‘That’s what I’m saying, Mum! How could you ever think that this isn’t home for any of us? If it weren’t, do you think we’d keep coming back?’

Molly leaned back in her seat, studying Ron’s face.

‘Harry and Ginny just want to start building what we all have here. Together.’

~

Ron dumped his bags onto the kitchen counter and pulled open the cabinet, calling out to Hermione, ‘Fancy a tea?’

‘M’alright!’ came a muffled reply, likely stilted from a pen stuck in her mouth.

He poked the burner with his wand. ‘When’s the last time you stood up?’

The whistle of the kettle masked the silence in response.

‘I know you can hear me, Hermione!’

‘I…went to the loo about two hours ago!’

Ron rolled his eyes. ‘Stretch your legs!’

Mugs in hand, he passed into the living room, where Hermione lay half propped on the couch, her neck lurched forward over a roll of parchment unfurling over her bent knees and beyond her feet.

‘That can’t be good for your back,’ Ron snorted.

Hermione didn’t look up from her scribbling on the parchment. ‘I kind of went numb in my bum a few hours ago.’

‘You said you stretched two hours ago!’

She glanced up, the pen unceasing. ‘I said I went to the _loo_ two hours ago.’

‘What, so you crab walked in that position to the toilet?’

Hermione’s lip quirked. ‘And where were you this afternoon, I might ask?’

Ron sidled in next to her. ‘Went for a walk in the Heath. As best as the Ministry tries, I can’t shake the feeling of being underground.’ He leaned his head against hers. ‘Why aren’t you at your desk?’

Hermione sipped her tea, her eyes twinkling with mirth. ‘Have you seen our office lately?’

He grinned sheepishly. ‘I’ll take care of it.’

**autumn**

Hermione had departed a few hours earlier for lunch with her parents, leaving him to quiet and concentration. Ron had only ever appreciated the benefits of concentration in a well-fought game of chess, but even those were mostly social opportunities. Of late, he’d taken to watching Harry and Hermione play whenever Harry and Ginny came over for dinner. The way Hermione brushed her fingertips underneath her chin as she focused completely enthralled him.

He sat at his stool, glancing out the window towards Hampstead Heath. It had been particularly grimy this morning, the remnants of a late-September rain greeting him at every turn of the path, and he spent a good half hour brushing out the traces of his trek from the mudroom, lest he leave Hermione to step into a full-blown mud pit when she opened the door.

He clipped a fresh sheet of paper into the easel. It was a sheet of plywood propped up against two planks, but it did the job. Though he had run into Seamus at the Hippogriff recently and they’d talked about Dean’s work for a while. Seamus mentioned something about carpentry…a task for another day.

He started with a watered-down purple. Bold but still light enough for the first sketch, the approximation of what was to come. A checkered table. A hand reaching for a piece. A sheet of hair shielding a face, hanging over the board. The moment before the decision.

They’re mostly sketches, but there’s a magic to them. Even though they don’t whiz or bang, or fly off the shelves at random, or spray him with random liquids, he loves them. Like the weather, he never saw them move head on, but he sensed the motion from the corner of his eye. It left traces on the pavement.

~

‘Merry Christmas, Gin.’

‘Bit early for Christmas, isn’t it? What is it, barely October?’ Ginny looked up from where she was sitting on the couch in Grimmauld, flipping through _Quidditch Quarterly_. Harry and Hermione’s quiet chatter wafted in from the kitchen, mingling with a record playing softly from the corner.

Ron rolled his eyes, ‘Consider it a late birthday present and early Christmas then. Just bloody take it.’ He shook the gift, wrapped neatly in brown paper. ‘Don’t know why I bother doing anything nice for you,’ he teased lightly.

‘Fine, fine. Give it here then.’ He passed it over and flopped into the armchair as she tore through the paper absentmindedly. ‘Is this because I took the mickey out of my birthday gift? I mean, you can’t blame me. A Cannons jersey? And just after I started training, too. You’re unbelievable, honestly—’ The paper fell away and she went silent.

‘Where did you get this?’

Ron shrugged. ‘Made it.’

Ginny gaped at him. ‘You made it?’

‘Dunno why that’s such a surprise,’ he replied, staring at his fingernails. They were slightly stained green. Something unhitched from his chest. ‘Had a free afternoon last weekend. Some supplies lying around. Figured I should try to clear out my junk a bit more often.’

‘You made _this_?’ She repeated, finally holding it up, a painting about the length of her arm and three-quarters wide of the Burrow. He’d captured the gentle lean of the upper stories, teetering just so, a warm glow emitting from the windows as the house woke up, the sun rising and streaking the sky with early dawn pinks and blues, casting morning shadows on the surrounding coop and orchard. Their home, brushed into life.

~

Saturday mornings were for ‘proper country romps’ in the Heath, which Ron insisted had ‘the only good mud in the entire city’ and was ‘critical to my health, Hermione, think of my health!’ They trekked over and down the steep hills, splashing through well-trodden mud, mucking their jeans and wellies, and chatting with the dog-owning passersby (‘Why don’t we get a dog?’ ‘Crookshanks wouldn’t do well with a Crup, much less a regular dog. He needs an intellectual, Ron.’)

Their mudroom was second only to the Burrow’s in necessity, covered in boots and overcoats, mud tracking anywhere but the doormat. Next to the coat rack hung a painting of Hermione’s favorite stretch of the Heath, a narrow path that opens into a copse ringing a leaf-covered field, knotty branches reaching into one another’s arms to form a spindly canopy.

That painting had appeared late one evening towards the end of November. In the post-lunch lull, drowsy with Friday-night leftovers and steaming tea, Hermione settled onto the couch and pulled open her latest book. Ron kissed her forehead and muttered, ‘I’ll be right back,’ receiving a hum in response. She didn’t realize until the afternoon creaked by the way Saturday afternoons do, the hours wiling away in overly-warm jumpers and cricked necks from lying on the couch and reading for too long, that he had been gone long enough for her to finish the entire tome without interruption.

She shook off her reading stupor and padded into the unofficially-designated double-office-studio, where Ron had slowly accumulated his painting supplies. First that basic array of colours, and later the summery set with its strong reds and blues, now a pale wintry palette to balance it out. A stash of standard brushes, from what she could tell, then an odd one here or there: a great fat brush with a round, flat head, then a series of ever-thinning brushes that he separated from the rest in a funky ceramic mug.

Ron faced the window, overlooking the surrounding houses and the Heath in the distance, slightly hunched on his stool, which had usurped his desk chair one Thursday evening before she returned from work, finding the rolling chair spinning slowly in the hall. He leaned into her touch as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and down his chest, pressing a kiss to his temple.

‘That can’t be good for your back.’

‘Went numb about an hour ago.’

She peered at the painting, a familiar mix of deep reds and rich browns mixed with dark greens that had surrounded them just that morning.

‘This looks familiar.’

‘Couldn’t get it out of my head.’

‘You even got the mud on my wellies.’

‘That’s the best bit.’

**winter**

‘It’s the only thing he’ll buy for himself, really.’

Ginny paused. ‘What about—?’

‘Well, I mean, besides food, of course. He’ll never pass on a good take-out or splurging a bit on some nice food. Did he tell you that he spent 40 quid on cheese the other day? He came home with this great block of cheese and he said, “Hermione, you’ve got to try this, it’s the best bloody cheese I’ve ever had.” And I looked at the receipt and said, “Ron, this cheese cost 40 quid. That’s 4 galleons!” And then he just danced round the kitchen with the cheese in hand, singing about Oregon? We’ve never even been to Oregon!’

Ginny wheezed, the February wind whipping her laughter out of her mouth. ‘Did you try the cheese?’

Hermione huffed. ‘Of course, I tried the cheese. The cheese was brilliant. But it cost 40 quid!’

‘You said it yourself,’ Ginny responded through spurts of laughter, ‘He’ll never pass up good food.’

Hermione smiled. ‘He just, he loves a good meal.’ She took another few steps and glanced up mischievously. ‘He got these crackers to go along with it—’

‘Oh, you’re just as bad!’ And they burst into laughter once more.

They walked a while longer, their chuckles quieting in the shrill wind.

‘But besides the great expensive cheese—’

‘I’m doing him a disservice. The cheese was excellent.’

‘Besides the cheese,’ Ginny repeated, ‘He doesn’t spend much on anything! You know how Ron is. He’d rather bleed from his eyeballs than let someone else pay his way. He’s so touchy about money.’

Hermione nodded along. ‘I think that’s why he’s so quiet about this. He doesn’t want to seem selfish, or, or, extravagant. He buys all these brushes and paints and these lovely papers, and he set up a new easel last week, but we don’t really discuss it.’ She laughed, ‘I think he purposefully puts dinner in the oven before I get home so that whatever’s cooking will lure him out of whatever he’s concentrating on.

‘I’m glad he’s expanded his, well, his arsenal, I guess is the best way to describe it. For a while he painted against that plain sheet of wood, but he must have mentioned something to Seamus, because Seamus sent over this gorgeous hand-carved easel. He wouldn’t tell me how much it cost, but I know he wouldn’t let Seamus do something that lovely for free!’ She took a breath, ready to rattle on, and Ginny saw her opening.

‘It makes him happy though, doesn’t it? I mean, it’s totally unlike anything he’s ever done before.’

‘He loves it so much. The entire office-studio has been taken over by his supplies and I don’t even mind. We sold his desk a few weeks ago because he just wasn’t using it and he said he missed listening to me work in the evenings. So we got rid of the desk and then put in this open filing-cabinet thing—’

‘Oh, I bet you had a field day choosing that.’

‘I didn’t have to do anything! Ron knew exactly where to go and exactly what he wanted. He marched right into the supplies store and found the perfect thing immediately.’

‘And then…?’

‘And then we spent two hours deciding on new frames.’

Ginny grinned. ‘Of course you did.’

‘He makes them so quickly, by the time the paintings dry he’s already started three more. Honestly, if he didn’t give them to other people, the entire house would be covered wall to wall. I practically barter with him to keep some of my favorites.’

**spring**

Harry flicked through the paper on the kitchen counter while Ron fixed the tea. ‘What’s this I hear about you spending 70 quid on cheese?’

A spoon clattered in the sink. ‘First of all,’ Ron said, wagging his finger, ‘It was 40 quid.’

‘Pardon me, maths were never my strong suit.’

‘Second of all,’ Ron continued, keen on his point, ‘It was bloody excellent cheese.’

Harry laughed. ‘So where’s my chunk of cheddar then?’

‘It was a blue cheese.’ Ron replied. ‘And we finished it.’

‘Devastating.’

‘There’ll be more next year, if you’re lucky.’ Ron said as he passed Harry his mug.

’Somehow I can’t imagine I will be, given my record thus far.’ He took a sip. ‘Thanks for the painting, by the way. I don’t think I ever acknowledged it properly. But we hung it up.’

‘Oh yeah, I saw,’ Ron replied. ‘M’glad you like it.’

Their easy silence settled between them as Ron began fixing lunch. In the clattering of pots and plates below the counter, Harry asked suddenly, ‘What got you onto it?’

‘Mm?’

‘The painting, I mean. What got you onto it? Did you take a class when I wasn’t paying attention or something?’

The clanging paused for a second. ‘I don’t know.’ A drawer opened and shut.

Ron popped his head back up. ‘I don’t know,’ he repeated. ‘It was more like I wasn’t paying attention for a while. Hermione was finishing school, and you were busy fixing up Grimmauld, and I was just going through the motions. Training. Waiting. Grieving. Forgetting about grieving and then visiting home without warning and finding Mum gripping the kitchen counter like it’ll disappear underneath her. Or popping into the shop and seeing George standing motionless behind the counter. The whole world seemed to stop for a while. And now I see how it keeps moving.’

He placed the plates on the counter and turned back around.

‘I like it. It helps me look around me more. And not in the “constant vigilance” way. Not in an anxious, hyperawareness, we’re on the run sort of way. In a, “Right, wow, there are so many things to the places I’m in every day” kind of way. And they’re always changing. And I want to keep track of them in a way I didn’t care about or know how to care about before.’

Harry sat quietly. Ron searched his face, waiting for a response. Without one, he stepped through to the studio, grabbed his most recent thoughts, and handed them to Harry.

He watched as his best friend studied the sketches in his hands. The city glowed softly in the background, but the main focus was a bright pinky figure to the center left of the paper.

‘I guess—okay, here’s a good example. I was walking through the Heath on my way home from the Ministry a month or so ago. And there’s the gnarly hill, this absolute bugger of a hill. It’s so steep. And I’m huffing up it, even with all the bloody running we do, and I get to the top and the city is just glowing. Merlin knows how it wasn’t foggy or cloudy, and there’s this little girl with her mum. And it’s clear she’s dressed herself. She looks like what a wizard would look like if they were trying to wear Muggle clothes. Pink flowered jumper, blue flowered skirt, and those, um, you know, like a cheetah but not a cheetah—’

‘Leopard?’

‘Yes! Leopard print stockings, and pink polka dot boots. It was brilliant. Brilliant outfit. And this little girl is looking out over the city, and it felt like one of those paintings you’d see in a museum. With a woman looking all forlorn and whatever, with a sad sky in the background. You know, morose stuff. But it was this adorable little kid in the wackiest outfit.’

Harry handed the sketches back to him.

‘I don’t think I would’ve appreciated that a few months ago.’

‘And then you painted it.’

‘Yeah, and then I painted it. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about it.’

**autumn**

‘Ron. Ron!’

Ron turned towards the sound. ‘Sorry. What did you say, Dean?’

Dean laughed. ‘I asked, did you get these commissioned?’ He gestured to the paintings along the wall in the living room. There were a smattering of spots around the Burrow. The orchard. Hermione lying on the bank of the pond, her feet dangling in the water. And then the stands at the Cannons game. Harry and Hermione playing chess.

Ron shook his head. ‘No, no, don’t worry, we wouldn’t go behind your back.’

Dean laughed again. ‘Good to know you’re a loyal customer. Where’d you get them, then?’

Ron shrugged. ‘I painted them.’

Dean looked back at the paintings, eyeing them carefully. ‘These are really good, Ron. I didn’t know you painted.’

‘Neither did I.’

They stood in silence, the tambor of Hermione’s birthday party fading behind him. Ron examined the painting of Hermione and the pond once more. It was his favorite by far. That afternoon in the dying days of summer was seared into his memory. Nothing could shake the image from his mind until he finally put it to paper.

‘I haven’t seen a ton of watercolours in exhibitions and stuff recently. People aren’t as interested in them, since most of the magic stuff is related to oil and acrylic. But there are ways to make them wizard-y.’

‘Oh yeah? I’ve wondered about that.’

‘The techniques are pretty straightforward,’ Dean said. ‘There are the standard incantations, which are mostly used for portraits, like the ones at Hogwarts, but you can also apply it to landscapes and stuff. Those are fine, but you can’t really isolate the incantation to one part of the work. It’s all or nothing.’

‘Shame. We could’ve tried to figure out how to get Sir Cadogan to shut it for once.’

Dean smirked. ‘The other way is to use these paints that sort of have the magic laced in. I have a potioneer friend who works in art production, and she’s developed these paints that respond to a similar set of incantations. I like those a bit better, because you can tell the paintings exactly what to do once you’re done. Can’t add it in after the fact, though, so you have to plan it out a bit.’

‘It’s an idea,’ Ron replied. ‘I like how these are though.’

Dean nodded. ‘They move just fine on their own.’

**winter**

‘Ready to go?’

Ron stood in the doorway of Hermione’s Ministry office, holding out her cloak.

‘Yes, yes, just one minute as I finish this,’ she replied, her pen skirting across the parchment and finishing off her signature with a neat line.

‘I’m impressed,’ Ron said, grinning as he slid the cloak over her shoulders. ‘Usually, I have enough time to kick up my feet and have a proper tea while you finish for the day.’

‘It is Christmastime, I figured I should give myself the gift of leaving on time,’ Hermione replied, almost too flippantly, as she locked her door and waved goodbye to Meryl, her secretary.

Ron stopped dead in his tracks (and conveniently next to the bowl of sweets at the edge of Meryl’s desk). ‘Are you well? Giving yourself a gift? Where did this burst of self-appreciation come from?’

Hermione raised her eyebrows, and Ron quickly retreated. ‘That’s not to say you don’t deserve it, of course you deserve it. I’ll be the first to tell you that. I’m just surprised I didn’t have to fight wand and dagger to convince you.’

‘Maybe you’ve finally gotten through to me.’

‘Are you saying that for once, I’m right? Meryl!’ Ron called back over his shoulder from the elevators. ‘What time is it?’

‘Oh hush!’ Hermione admonished, as a faint, ‘5:02 pm, Ron!’ sounded through the floor.

‘Mark your calendars!’ Ron announced to no one and everyone. ‘At 5:02 pm on 21 December, 2000, Hermione Granger told me, Ron Weasley, that I’m right!’

A whoop went up from the nearby cubicles.

‘I said no such thing!’ Hermione cried. ‘Maybe I’ve just been craving those chocolate things from that little café. I’ve been thinking about them all week.’

They exited the Ministry and apparated to Covent Garden, rounding the corner to the tiny stationary-and-then-some shop that they had frequented far more often than either of them had expected in the last year or so.

The door tinkled as Hermione pushed it open, a warm blast chasing away the raw December air.

‘Hello, Zia!’

‘Merry Christmas, Ron.’ The now-familiar salesclerk waved from the register, her hair flopping over the half-shaven side of her head. ‘I feel like I just saw you. Already run through your latest stock-up?’

‘Nah, I’m not that productive,’ he replied. ‘Here for Hermione,’ who had already taken off to rifle through ink cartridges. He strolled over to the counter and lowered his voice, ‘Though I suppose I said the same thing last time. Anything interesting coming in the new year?’

Zia flipped through a notebook. ‘We’ve been looking into expanding the art section, actually. Obviously, we can’t compete with the big supply chains, but we think there might be more to do there.’

‘Oh? Different kinds of paints, you mean?’

‘Possibly, but we’re thinking of other paper media. Watercolours made sense because they’re usually on paper, so we’re thinking about other paper arts. Origami. That sort of thing.’

Ron nodded. ‘That sounds great. But I think I’ll stick with this hobby for now.’

Zia grinned. ‘Famous last words, seeing as I convinced you so well last time.’

Ron laughed. ‘I hardly think calling me “Sir” and using intimidation were the key persuasive tactics to me picking up painting.’

Hermione appeared then at his elbow, and he smiled down at her. ‘All set?’

‘Mm-hmm.’ She placed her ink cartridges on the counter and produced a leather pen pouch from her pocket. ‘What do you think of this?’

~

A bit harried and a tad hungry, Ron and Hermione wandered down the cobble-stone streets and double-backed, hunting for a familiar shoulder-width opening in the long stretch of brick buildings.

‘Do you think we might’ve taken a wrong turn out of the store?’ He asked.

Hermione shook her head. ‘No, no. I’m pretty positive it was this way.’ She looked up at the building in front of her. ‘It should be right here.’

‘Maybe it’s on the other side of the block?’ Ron suggested hopefully. ‘Like, on the opposite side of this literal block of buildings?’

But their trek to the opposite side of the block revealed no such entrance, no alleyway, no sign that their interior plaza with donut shops and cafes, a butcher and apothecary ever existed. Perhaps the sturdy brick buildings surrounding them inhaled just a little too deeply and expanded just a little too much, squeezing the fairy-lit refuge through some city wormhole, with no telling where the other end would be.

‘Meant to be, innit?’ Ron said as he took Hermione’s hand. ‘Properly weird. And confirms my suspicions.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I thought it was a bit magical. We found it when we didn’t need it, and now that we’re looking, it’s disappeared. Only magical things disappear on you right when you need them. Right wankers, it’s like Peeves, but a bloody building.’

With a turn and a squeeze, they echoed their lost plaza and disappeared.

~

‘Ready to go?’

Hermione stood in the doorway of the studio, watching as Ron scourgified his paint brushes and wiped down his palette.

‘Mm?’

‘Ron, are you ready to go? We’re meant to be there already.’

He looked up and saw her as though for the first time. ‘Blimey, Hermione, I was completely out of it. What did you say?’

She laughed and stepped towards him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

‘I asked if you’re ready to go! To the Burrow. For Christmas Eve. Which is starting now.’

‘Right, right.’ He nuzzled his nose into the crown of her head. ‘It’s nice and quiet here though. We could stay, wait to see everyone after tomorrow…’ his voice drifted off, and she felt his lips against her hair.

‘As lovely as that sounds, your mum will have a fit if we bail this late. She’s probably already fussed about how tardy we are.’

She received a murmur in response. ‘I’ve never known you to pass up a Christmas dinner.’

‘Mm, I’m happy to put it off if it means another moment with you,’ Ron whispered. ‘Besides, it’s Christmas Eve. Mum doesn’t pull out all the stops till Boxing Day anyways.’

‘Oh, you’re awful!’ Hermione threw her head back and laughed. ‘Right then, we need to go.’ She pulled away, tugging him after her.

‘Okay, okay.’ He caught her hand. ‘Just one more thing.’ A neatly wrapped brown package replaced his hand in hers. ‘For you.’

Hermione paused in surprise. ‘You’re early.’

He guided her to his stool and perched her there. ‘I wanted you to have this before the Christmas chaos in the morning.’

She peeled the paper back, letting it fall away. The thin wooden frame held a missing world. A blank brick wall. Three spindly, sparsely leaved trees reaching upwards, linked with glittering lights that glinted off the damp cobblestone. A familiar figure sitting on a green bench, coffee in one hand, her other brushing beneath her chin, her head cocked towards the sky.

**Author's Note:**

> the pens, the store, and the cheese are all real. the plaza might be, if you’re lucky.


End file.
